


Seeking a Happy Place

by orphan_account



Series: Legion Quentin [1]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Meg brings a little warmth to Ormond.





	Seeking a Happy Place

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy the story, please leave a comment. If you don't enjoy the story but read it anyway, please leave a comment! Comments are so encouraging to authors and are the best way to keep us writing. If you read it, please comment!!

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Quentin mumbles, tucking one of Meg’s braids behind her ear. It falls back into her face immediately, the ginger hair framing her wide eyes and manic grin. She splays her hands over his chest and grinds her hips roughly into his pelvis. Groaning, his hand flutters up to brace her waist, but she slaps it away. It falls back to his side, though Quentin rolls his eyes, both at Meg’s cockiness and to check the chalet out the small window of the shed they have holed up inside. Frank is out on a trial and could come waltzing through the gates at any moment. Quentin’s not sure where the rest of the Legion is but so long as they aren’t nearby, he doesn’t really care. There is no love lost between him and the rest of the wayward teens. It’s no secret how Julie and Joey feel about him; they make a game out of tormenting him, and rope Susie into too. He can’t really blame her for going along with Julie and Joey, but it definitely puts a damper on any potential friendship.

“Cliché much?” Meg teases.

Quentin shrugs, a smirk pulling at his lips. The only person who seems to like him in any genuine way is Meg. More and more often she ends up at Ormond. They had been friends before Quentin never came back to the campfire. Explored along the edges of the forest together. For Meg, it was fun. A release. A way to get out all the feelings pent up inside of her from living this hell. For Quentin, it was research. Always looking for the next bit of information, the next journal scrap, the next piece of the puzzle. He’d read over them fervently while the others talked, told each other happy stories and stupid jokes because laughing was better than the alternative. Sometimes Quentin could be persuaded to put the pages away and join in. He’d laugh and smile and joke, but the story of his life before he’d fallen into this nightmare stayed with him alone.

When he hadn’t come back to the campfire, Meg had assumed the worst. That was why she’d been so shocked to see him again. Hiding behind a mask didn’t matter; she’d known it was him. How could she not? It had all been so **bloody** ; the redhead beat her fury, indignation, and despair into his body and left him behind to die. He did, but what was death here? Nothing. Less than nothing. Quentin couldn’t hold it against her, and things had been better since then. Perhaps she’d expressed what she needed to that night in the woods. Perhaps now she understands that none of this is really Quentin’s fault, or even his _choice_. Whatever the reason for the change, he’s always happy for her visits and the bit of warmth they bring to the frozen resort. Her weight atop him is a solid comfort, her hands gliding across his chest reassuring.

At least until her fingers brush down his arm towards the Krueger blade held loosely in his hand. His fingers snap shut like a trap.

“What’re you doing?”

“Scared?” She goads, wriggling her fingers into his fist in an attempt to break the hold. He clamps down tighter, holding her hand and the blade in an iron grasp.

“Any reason I shouldn’t be? You’re a crazy woman.” 

“I’m a redhead,” she quips, flashing him her teeth. Whispers of the past filter through her head. The ways they had talked about her as though she couldn’t hear. **_Wild_** _. Wild child. It’s her hair; runs in the family. Her mother was **wild** , too…_Even the most negative thoughts of home twist her gut. Meg refocuses on the boy beside her. Her friend here. Best friend, maybe, this droopy eyed sad sack. But she knows there’s more behind that solemn expression; she’s seen it, in trials before Quentin came here. A fire that’s still burning behind those tired eyes, she’s sure of it.

“C’mon,” she moans, punctuating the gripe with her hips and relishing the hissing intake of breath it elicits. “I just wanna see it. I’m not gonna steal it. _Or_ use it.”

“No,” he replies, tightening his fist. It’s not so much that he’s worried she’ll steal it or try to hurt him; she can’t take it past the gates and he’ll just come back if she kills him. No, the blade is a prized possession. A hard-won **trophy**. He’s not about to let Meg have it, especially without knowing what she plans to do with it. 

In hopes of stopping an argument, Quentin tangles his hand in her hair and brings her back for a kiss. Gently, he pulls her lip into his mouth and nips it before sliding his tongue over hers. It surprises her; Quentin’s always been soft and quiet with her, even now that he is a monster. She leans in eagerly, returning the gentle nip, the weapon all but forgotten. When she breaks the kiss, Quentin’s eyes are open. She follows them out the window into the lazily falling snow.

“You look worried,” she hums, lips turning down at the corners. Grinning mischievously, she snakes her fingers under his shirt. “Scared Fred will get jealous?”

“Frank,” he corrects with a grimace. “And I don’t know.” Quentin doesn’t really understand what Frank thinks or feels, but he’s certain he won’t take kindly to finding Meg hiding out at Ormond, especially not if a member of _his_ Legion is fraternizing with her. If the rest of the Legion, _any_ of them, find the two of them out here, it will be _bad_. It will be bad for both of them. But he doesn’t want to scare Meg, so he keeps that to himself and kisses her again.

“What, are you _scared_ , Meg?” He teases, lips brushing against hers with the words. 

She scoffs in offense. If he thinks she’s scared of those punks, he’s even more of a dumbass than she’d thought. There’s nothing they can do to her, not really. Immortality has a way of bringing out the bravado in a girl. “Of the _Legion?_ Please. Would I be here if I was scared of your little club?”

Swooping down, she bites his neck quickly, sucking the spot hard as she yanks on his shirt. It’s going to mark for sure. Anxiety flickers through Quentin at the thought, but he ignores it and lets Meg do what she wants. If he allowed the possessive psychopaths chasing after him to dictate every decision he made, he’d never do a damn thing. Or so he tells himself. When he’d left, Nancy had accused him of doing just that. So had his brother. But they didn’t understand, not really. What did they _expect_ him to do? He couldn’t just-

“Now shut up and take off your shirt,” she murmurs into his skin, teeth flashing against his throat.

Quentin turns his focus back to her. The pressure of her hips and the warmth between her splayed legs rubbing insistently against his bulge feels good. He’s perfectly happy to just lay back and let her take control but worries he won’t be able to focus if he does. Tightening his hand on her waist, he sits up, catching her when she falls back, and lowers her to the floorboards. Quentin settles between her legs, letting each of her thighs hang over his lap, then pulls his shirt over his head. With one hand bracing her waist, he slips his hand inside of the stolen blade. He’s done it a few times, put it over his index finger like a gauntlet, and it’s always a strange feeling when he does. A mixture of anxiety, shame, excitement roiling in him like a sickness. For now, he tries not to think about it and hooks the claw in the neckline of Meg’s jersey. With a quick jerk, he slits it in two, careful not to scratch her pale skin. Her mouth pops open in shock, then quickly curves into a grin. She’s pretty when she smiles, when her cheeks are as red as her hair. She’s pretty anyway, but Quentin much prefers seeing her breathless in this way. Much prefers the blood to be _inside_ of her cheeks instead of splashed across them. 

“Hey!” She swats playfully at him, laughing and shaking her head. “Jerseys don’t grow on trees, you know!”

Even as she snickers, she shivers. The icy blade raises bumps on her skin and hardens her nipples. He’s not chiseled from marble like David, but he looks stronger than she had expected. No hard angles. No jutting bones. Just pale, scarred skin stretched over sleek muscle. Scars are bright against his pale flesh. He probably hates them, but Meg doesn’t mind. If anything, she sees them as a testament to his bravery. His tenacity. His refusal to go down when others would have. How long has it been since she’s been close to someone like this? Since she’s felt heat between her legs from another body? Too long. Patience has never been a virtue of hers, and Meg plants her feet on the ground to lift her hips. Hooking her thumbs in her shorts, she pulls them down and off. Gripping Quentin’s wrists, she yanks his hands down, flattening the palms over her breasts. He doesn’t resist, just smiles softly and touches obediently. A flick of his finger draws the claw across her neck. With agonizing slowness, he traces the blade over her throat, her protruding collarbones, then finally traces a nipple with delicate precision. Her breath hitches in her throat, the cold metal earning a shiver and a flutter of her lashes.

He wishes they could go inside. The chalet is relatively warm from the fire barrels the Legion have dragged inside, plus the ever-burning fire-pit downstairs. His little room upstairs isn’t much, but it’s better than roughly cut wooden boards that have to be shoving splinters into her back. Better than the frigid cold which Meg is _definitely_ feeling, if the state of her nipples is any indication. It all feels a little trashy, but it’s what he’s got to offer. Better than a knife in the spine, he supposes. And Meg hasn’t complained, so maybe he’s overthinking. 

There’s one part of her that _isn’t_ cold, at least. Quentin draws the blade down the contours of her body to cut her underwear off. Pulling the ruined garment away, Quentin gets up on his knees. He trusts her strong legs to hold her steady as he unbuttons his jeans and slides them down his thighs to his knees, pushing his underwear down to follow. The absurd thought to ask for a condom floats into his brain, and he pushes it aside. If death doesn’t stick in this world, pregnancy sure as hell can’t. And he doesn’t have any STDs. Not that he knows about, anyway.

“Quentin,” she groans, gripping his wrists and rolling her hips suggestively, her pride preventing her from outright asking for what she wants. But she doesn’t need to ask. Quentin pulls his hips back just enough to reposition himself, his jeans protecting his knees from the scrape of the wood. Gripping Meg’s hips, he grins down at her. He should have guessed she would be impatient. Pushy. But he doesn’t mind, not really. Besides, it’s probably a smart idea to quicken the pace, just a bit. The longer he traces that claw down her body, the longer someone has to find them. 

Leaning over her trembling body, he tries to be considerate despite her insistence. Tries to take it slow as he pushes into her body, her heat a welcome contrast to the chilly air. The rest of the world melts away. Her warm breath comes out in frozen puffs against the slowly drifting snow outside the window. Against the ever-present threat of discovery. Dropping his forehead to rest against hers, Quentin kisses the end of Meg’s nose, her cheekbone, and finally her lips. As he kisses her softly, his hand drifts between their bodies to stroke her clit. It’s slick, hot to the touch, and he moans in quiet appreciation, nipping her lip between his teeth and grinning. 

She grins back, eyes glittering up at him. But another glitter catches his attention. His eyes cut to the claw slipped over his finger, laying still beside her head. He moves without really thinking, scratching it slowly through the wood. Carves a thick line into the floorboard, pressing harder until he’s sure it’s going to break through. Flicking his hand, he brings it to her throat quickly and presses the cold metal against her neck. Meg gasps, cords of muscle bobbing against the knife. It’s only the back of the blade, too dull to hurt her, but he likes the _look_ of it. Likes the _feel_ of it. 

Best not to think about that right now. Or ever, if he can help it. 

The blade does something Meg can’t admit. Her breath hitches, trembles running up and down her body as she rocks her hips insistently, the knife slicing away the last clinging bits of pride preventing her from _insisting_ upon what she wants. Her hand tightens on his shoulder. Her head falls back and her legs squeeze him tighter as does her cunt, eliciting a low groan of pleasure. Meg’s fingers tangle in Quentin’s hair, knocking his beanie askew. Gripping him like an anchor to reality, she pants and groans, her voice choked as she tries to muffle herself. She grinds against him, throat stretched bare, letting him keep searching the windows for faces if he wants. She’s settled firmly into the moment, mind not wandering like his. He wonders what it will look like if he flips the knife the other way. Presses the sharp edge into her neck, lets bright blood bead up and weep down to pool in the hollow of her collarbone. Will it be the same color as her hair? Will she like it? He stares, transfixed, entranced, unable to pull his eyes away from her prostrate neck. What is this _feeling_? It reminds him of the trials, the demon’s whisper in the back of his mind, urging him to spill blood. To kill. But he doesn’t want to _hurt_ Meg. Certainly doesn’t want to _kill_ her. So why now? Is it a lingering effect of the Entity snarling its spines through his mind? Infecting him outside of trials?

Whipping the blade away from her neck, Quentin drops his face to Meg’s throat and bites. Sinks his teeth into the offered flesh until he tastes blood. It’ll turn black and mottled red. It’ll hurt and it’ll throb, but it’s all he can do to stop the thoughts. For Meg, it’s a welcome pain. Makes her feel connected to something. To someone. His nails dig into her hip, breaking skin there as well, pinpricks of blood sliding down the subtle curve of her body. She’s getting close and so is he, but he breathes deeply out his nose, body tense as he waits. It’s only _polite_ , after all. 

It doesn’t take long for Meg to tense, to cry out, as they rut their bodies together, Quentin’s hand caught between her legs. He can feel her tense, feel her clit spasm and throb against his fingers as she screams his name–what she can get out of it, anyway–into his ear. His world whites out, just for a moment, until there is only Meg’s pale body, her bright hair, and her blood and the heat pooling in his stomach, rocketing through his veins to every inch of his being.

Sweat beads on his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin and hers as they pant into the hollows of each other’s necks. When he opens his eyes again, he’s embarrassed, though he tries his best to hide it as he kisses her sluggishly bleeding throat. 

“Meg,” he murmurs, “are you okay?” 

“M’better than alright,” she answers dazedly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Cold as fuck, though.”

There’s not a lot of time to waste, but Quentin holds her for a while, keeps pressing apologetic kisses to whatever bit of skin she’ll let him touch. The chill creeps in when they untangle from one another, an awkward space between them as they begin to dress. Meg quickly discovers she has no wearable shirt to put on.

“Fuck,” she mutters softly, holding up the shredded jersey. “Now I gotta walk back in my bra and make up some story about a bramble bush…”

“Sorry,” Quentin mumbles, quickly slipping the blade off his finger. She notices, watches the tight expression take over his afterglow. Almost says something, but snaps her mouth shut instead. Some things are better left unsaid, and even Meg has _some_ tact.

“Don’t worry about it,” she assures, pulling her bra over her head and leaning to kiss Quentin’s temple. The snow outside isn’t appealing, but she’s got to get going. Sooner rather than later is better, lowering the chances of running into Frank coming in as she’s going out. Stretching quickly outside the shed, she throws Quentin a smile over her shoulder before jogging towards the gate. It’s hard leaving him behind, has been every time, but she knows she’ll be coming back. Maybe one time she can actually put a smile on his face that will stick.


End file.
